


Routine

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Midorima does now what he has determined is the best course of action: pauses his movements, stares at the backlit screen until it dies into silence, and only then finishes the wrapping, carefully and calmly. Then he sets the roll of tape aside and picks his phone up to call Takao back." Takao has become a part of Midorima's nightly routine more than he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

Midorima knows his phone is going to ring. It’s become part of his nightly routine, after he’s showered, just before he’s done rewrapping the tape on his left hand. It’s invariably at exactly the wrong moment, when he’s almost but not quite done, so he has to let it ring itself out while waiting for the irritation at the interruption to fade. He’s tried wrapping through the ringing, which left the job so poorly done he had to restart anyway, and he’s tried stopping to answer, which leaves his hand half-done and him tight-wound with anxiety until he hung up and could finish. Neither of those was acceptable, so he does now what he has determined is the best course of action: pauses his movements, stares at the backlit screen until it dies into silence, and only then finishes the wrapping, carefully and calmly.

Then he sets the roll of tape aside and picks his phone up to call Takao back.

“Were you busy?” Takao asks as soon as the other end of the line clicks into life.

“Yes.” Midorima doesn’t elaborate, even when Takao lets the silence grow pregnant in anticipation of further details. He knows he has the patience for this, lets the sound of Takao’s expectant breathing go staticy across the connection while he puts the tape away in his bag, takes his glasses off to the turn the room soft and blurred, and goes to turn off the overhead light.

He’s navigated his way back across the room, pulled back the blankets across the bed, and is just starting to settle himself under the sheets when Takao finally breaks. “What were you doing, then, Shin-chan?”

“Taping my fingers.” Midorima shifts himself into comfort on the mattress, blinks up at the vague texture of the dark ceiling overhead. “My hands were occupied.”

“I thought you were asleep already.” Midorima can hear the pout as clear as if he were seeing it on Takao’s face, catching in the high whine of the other boy’s voice. It makes him flinch, the sound hitting an uncomfortable screech across the phone line, and when he speaks himself his voice is lower and flatter as if to compensate.

“It’s ten minutes until the hour. I don’t go to sleep until ten.”

“Whatever.” Takao’s tone implies this is irrelevant, useless information he can’t be bothered to remember. “At least you’re still awake.”

“What do you want?” Midorima prompts, in case Takao intends to wander down a tangent and use up his remaining time before bed on useless small talk.

“Yeah. Do you want me to meet you tomorrow?”

Takao does this every night. It’s as much a part of Midorima’s routine as his shower, as the taping, as his bedtime. It’s been months since they didn’t go to school together; rationally there’s no point in Takao still asking. Midorima could declare that it is a fixed event and that would be the end of it.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t, or at least he doesn’t like to think why he doesn’t. It’s hard to admit, even to himself, even when he knows it’s true, that he likes hearing the sound of Takao’s voice each night, likes the reassurance that the other boy will think of him at least once before they rejoin the next day. It’s comforting to know that Takao worries he won’t call back, that Midorima can draw that fretting irritation from the other boy’s throat while barely doing anything at all to deliberately elicit it.

He knows he’s smiling, but when he speaks his voice is as level as it was before. Takao’s emotions are painted in every word that comes out of his mouth; Midorima prides himself on having more self-control than that. “Of course.” The phrase itself is chiding Takao for having to ask, but Midorima doesn’t give the implication of that time to sink in. He likes Takao better off-balance, whining and frustrated and all. “Make sure you bring breakfast.”

There is a huff of irritation from the other end of the line. “Can’t you make your own breakfast, Shin-chan?”

“I won’t have time.” Midorima blinks at the ceiling, eyes out-of-focus and staring past the darkness like he can see over the distance and through the sound of Takao’s breathing to the other boy’s face. “I need to prepare myself for school.”

“What about  _me_?”

Midorima knows what Takao means -- it’s a protest, not actually a question -- but he answers anyway, because it’s amusing, and because his breathing is starting to come a little faster at the desperation in Takao’s voice, his drowsy imagination is starting to suggest other causes for that tone. “You’ll be pedaling, of course.”

Takao makes an anguished wail of a sound, the protest too intense to be at all coherent, and all the blood in Midorima’s body flashes hot in response. Takao sounds breathless, sounds like he’s pleading wordlessly, and the fantasy in Midorima’s head pushes Takao to his knees, pins his arms behind his back and tips his face up so Midorima can picture the other boy’s parted lips, the motion of his shoulders as he takes a breath around that noise.

“ _Shin-chan_ ,” Takao finally manages, and Midorima reaches up to transfer his phone from his right hand to his left, careful to cradle the object gently in his wrapped fingers. He doesn’t like to hold the phone this way -- it’s unfamiliar, angled oddly and out of the norm -- but he needs his other hand free to slide under the blankets, to fit his fingers under the waistband of his pajama pants so he can close his fingers into a grip on his cock.

This  _isn’t_  part of the routine. Midorima has never actually done this before, not while Takao is still on the phone, at least. There’s been more than once that he’s tossed the phone aside after a call and fallen back to the bed, too desperate to even get his clothes entirely off, or shut his eyes to the useless darkness so his imagination can pull the other boy into all manner of unlikely scenarios. But he wants more, ever more, more of Takao’s time and more of his attention and more of  _him,_  and just the thought of what he’s doing, with the other boy unaware on the other end of the line, is enough to send another rush of blood to his length.

“Yes?” he says, and his voice sounds perfect, pristine and clear and frigid with control even as he tightens his fingers, strokes up over himself slow and imagines Takao’s lips. “Do you have a problem?”

“I  _always_  pedal,” Takao is saying, and Midorima can see his mouth on the words, pictures his throat trembling with gasped air and the flush of pleasure instead of irritation and protest. “We’re supposed to take  _turns_.”

“I need the time to prepare,” Midorima points out. When he digs his thumb in against himself he pictures Takao’s tongue sliding over his lower lip, blood flushing high in Takao’s cheekbones. “And I need to arrive at school on time.”

Takao whimpers again and Midorima has to close his mouth entirely to fend off the groan of response that threatens his throat. He’s stroking faster without thinking about it, drawing waves of responsive heat over his skin and pushing his heartbeat drumroll quick. “You’re so mean to me, Shin-chan.” He’s pouting again, Midorima can see the soft shape of the other boy’s mouth in his mind, imagines that damp curve bare inches from the slide of his fingers over himself.

“I’m just being rational.” That’s starting to sound frayed, in spite of his best efforts; Midorima is sure it’s too subtle for Takao to trace, but he can hear it, and that’s enough warning. But he doesn’t want to hang up, he wants the sound of Takao breathing in his ear when he comes, so he takes a breath -- carefully, so the sound doesn’t form into a gasp into the receiver -- and says, “I don’t know why you always protest.”

“You don’t know  _why_?” Takao wails, and there, good, now he’s irritated, now he’ll talk without asking any questions. Midorima can slide entirely past the meaning, let the sound of Takao’s throat working on the words inform his movements and his fantasy both, and this time when he tightens his grip the heat has the edge of inevitability to it, the taut pull of expectation along Midorima’s spine. In his mind he can see Takao’s knees on the floor, Takao’s mouth parted for him -- he can imagine salt moisture clinging to the other boy’s skin, can paint superheated want into the other’s blue eyes. And he can hear the continuing whine at Takao’s throat, separate from his imagination and intensely real, the only real thing in his whole world. Midorima opens his mouth to deaden any sound, and arches up off the bed, and when he comes in his mind it’s over Takao’s lips, across Takao’s tongue, onto Takao’s flushed skin.

The other boy is still talking when Midorima reels his attention back in, when Midorima can trust his throat to not betray him with a shiver under his words.   
“--  _every time_ , Shin-chan, it’s horrible of you, you’re  _using_  me and I --”

“Kazunari,” Midorima says, loud and clear, and Takao goes silent like Midorima’s closed his fingers on his throat to stop the flow of sound. “Go to sleep.” Takao whines, starts to say something, and Midorima repeats himself, louder. “Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

A pause, Takao considering whether further protest is useful; then a huff of resignation, an inhale, and when he speaks again he sounds chipper, sharp-edged happiness back under his words. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shin-chan. Goodnight!”

“Hm,” Midorima offers, agreement rather than reciprocation. Takao pauses, waiting for more that they both know isn’t coming -- then there’s another little rush of air, more irritated this time, and “ _Fine_ ” before there’s the click of the line going dead.

Midorima doesn’t move for a minute. Then he shifts the phone from his ear, sets it on the sheets before working his hand free of his pants. He’s meticulous about cleaning up, careful to avoid smearing either his clothes or sheets as he does so; but then that’s done, and he can lie back in bed, perfectly flat on the mattress, and blink up at the ceiling again as languid heat suffuses his veins.

It’s past ten, when he reaches for the phone, brings it close enough that he can see without finding his glasses to type out  _Goodnight, Kazunari_. He’s smiling before he’s hit the send button.


End file.
